


This is Not Your Year

by thesaddestboner



Series: Author's Favorites [5]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Break Up, Community: sslyricwheel, Consensual Infidelity, Detroit Tigers, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, F/M, Implied Relationships, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters, mention of family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-08
Updated: 2008-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:04:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Brandon climbed onto the diving board and looked down.  His reflection stared back up at him, shimmering and abstracted, like pieces of broken glass stuck back together in a bad fit.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Not Your Year

**Author's Note:**

> My [](http://sslyricwheel.livejournal.com/profile)[**sslyricwheel**](http://sslyricwheel.livejournal.com/) lyrics were provided by [**drummergroupie**](http://drummergroupie.livejournal.com/). 
> 
> Many thanks to [**bee_yes**](http://bee_yes.livejournal.com/), [**ayrdaomei**](http://ayrdaomei.livejournal.com/), [**aurealis**](http://aurealis.livejournal.com/), [**edgeoflovely**](http://edgeoflovely.livejournal.com/) and **C** for helping me out with this ficbeast at various points in the writing process, betaing and letting me bounce ideas off you. You could say this is a very _loose_ interpretation of the theme. Title from “Not Your Year,” by the Weepies.
> 
> Sort of an unintentional retelling of [Things Behind the Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/564756).
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://benched.livejournal.com/42030.html).
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

**2004**

Brandon watched from his corner of the clubhouse as Pudge pulled out a black duffel bag and unzipped it, producing navy plastic shin guards and a navy-and-orange nylon chest protector. He glanced at his own catcher’s equipment, which was hanging on a hook in his locker; his was a bit more beaten in than Pudge’s model, lumpy in all the wrong places, frayed and scuffed from wayward baseballs, an eyesore. Pudge’s just looked so damn clean and perfect and _new_ that it made Brandon’s gorge rise.

Pudge dug into his duffel and produced a wood-handled brush, and began to scrub at his shin guards until their plastic navy shells glistened and glowed under the fluorescents.

Brandon yanked his chest protector off the metal hook in his locker and fit it over his head, clasping the buckles and tugging at the nylon straps. He was almost surprised to find that it still fit. 

It had been a long four months since he’d last put on the catching gear. He’d been halfway expecting to get traded anyway; he had to admit that part of him didn’t think he was long for the team when he found out that Pudge was a Tiger. He’d heard rumors—one, in particular, involving Gil Meche of Seattle—but they had never panned out. And even though he’d never really liked catching, it was _his_ job security on the line. With a pregnant wife at home, it mattered.

Brandon’s internal dialogue was rudely interrupted by the sudden, sharp crack of wood against wood. He raised his head at the sound and scanned the clubhouse for the source.

Pudge’s wooden brush rested on its side, and he was pulling on his own gear. Brandon watched, tightening his fingers at his collar almost possessively. These were _his_ colors, _his_ team, this was _his_ spot Pudge had swept into town and stolen out from under him, _his_ career that was now on the line. 

And yet, as Pudge flattened his hands over his chest and straightened the padding over his heart, Brandon had to admit Pudge looked pretty damn good in Tigers’ colors too.

Pudge spotted him watching and he waved, breaking into a wide, almost demented grin. “ ’ey, Brandon.”

Brandon’s cheeks warmed, embarrassed at having been caught staring. “Uh, hey.” He nodded to Pudge’s gear. “Looks good on ya.”

Pudge’s smile widened; Brandon was impressed he could fit it onto his face. “ _Gracías_. Feels good too.” Pudge bent over and began to strap on the shin guards. “Lookin’ forward to workin’ wit’ the staff. Gettin’ used to ever’body.”

“Sure you’ll do just fine,” Brandon said, slight bite of sarcasm lending an edge to his tone. He felt instantly bad as soon as the words had left his mouth, because Pudge had been nothing but kind and gracious from the moment he first met him, but Pudge didn’t seem offended.

“Ah, I dunno about that. I have the butterflies, you know?” Pudge fluttered his hand over his stomach.

“ _You_?” Brandon was incredulous. “The great Pudge Rodriguez?”

Pudge shook his head and laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Even the great Pudge Rodriguez.”

Brandon shrugged, grudgingly impressed, although he’d never let Pudge know _that_. “You learn somethin’ new every day, I guess.”

Pudge picked up his catcher’s mask and tucked it in the crook of his elbow. He glanced at Brandon and offered him a tempered smile. “I never had to lose my job to somebody else,” Pudge said, and Brandon bristled immediately. Pudge must have noticed, because he reached out and patted a hand at the center of Brandon’s chest. “Not how I mean. What I mean is—I don’t know how it feels. But I’ve gone through hard times, if you wanna talk sometime—?”

Brandon reached up, brushing his fingers against Pudge’s hand. His knuckles were rough, hardened from years and _years_ of baseball; Brandon’s own hands were still soft, untested. The more time Brandon spent in Pudge’s presence, despite Pudge’s generally friendly demeanor, the less competent he felt. 

Brandon gently pushed Pudge’s hand down. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll haveta take you up on that sometime.” He offered Pudge a smile and clasped his hand, giving it a firm shake. 

The two of them tromped up the steps side-by-side, to where the field was waiting.

Brandon had no intention of ever taking Pudge up on his offer.

  
**2005**  


Pudge came to Spring Training the next year jittery, snappish and twenty pounds (at _least_ ) thinner. He had rings under his eyes that had definitely not been there the previous year, or, at least, rings under his eyes Brandon had never noticed. He looked like the offseason had eaten him alive.

Nobody said anything about it, though. Ugie had been through the emotional ringer that offseason, with his mother’s kidnapping and increasing ransom demands before she’d finally been rescued in a dramatic shootout straight out of a Bruce Willis flick. Pudge was his best friend and had been right there with him through the whole ordeal. Brandon supposed it made sense that Pudge was affected too.

Pudge spent most of the early days of Spring Training sulking and lurking in corners, the exuberance of the previous season boxed up and tucked away. Everyone learned to avoid him or tread lightly, lest they get their heads snapped off. Eventually Pudge became the lone cloud on a sunny Lakeland spring day.

Finally, after weeks of tiptoeing around Pudge and his fluctuating moods, and by and large walking on eggshells, Brandon sucked it up and decided to confront him on it.

“Hey, Pudge.” Brandon stepped up to Pudge’s locker, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. Somehow, he felt more comfortable confronting Pudge if he wasn’t actually looking at him.

“ _¿Qué hubo_?” Pudge asked.

“Pudge,” Brandon tried again. 

Pudge grunted in response and glowered at his locker. “ _Cállate la boca_.”

“Don’t be difficult,” Brandon said sharply, moving on to the other cuff. “You know I don’t speak Spanish.”

Pudge shifted, kicking his legs out, narrowly missing Brandon’s shins with his cleats. “I’m not bein’ _difícil_. I just forget my English sometimes,” he said softly, but Brandon knew it was a lie. Pudge had been in America for practically a million years. He knew how to speak English at least well enough so that he was mostly understandable.

“Anyways,” Brandon charged on, unbuttoning his cuff, “noticed you been kinda—down lately.” He stole a glance Pudge’s way. “You okay?”

“ _Estoy cool_ ,” Pudge said.

Brandon rebuttoned his cuff. “Yeah, sure. Is that why you’ve been hauntin’ the clubhouse all Spring Training, then?” He looked Pudge again and hiked his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Whaddaya mean _hauntin’_?” Pudge’s dark, smoldering eyes looked, if at all possible, even more intimidating when paired with a thinner, sharply angled jawline. “Ain’t no ghost.”

“I didn’t mean _literally_. Oh, hell, I _know_ you know what I meant.” Brandon dropped his arms at his sides. “You’ve been moody and shit all spring. What gives?”

Pudge crossed his arms over his chest. “T’ink I got lotsa reasons to be moody,” he said pointedly, the Canseco allegations hanging heavy on the air between them. 

But there was something else there. Something Pudge wasn’t spilling. Brandon was sure of it, sure he could see it in Pudge’s eyes.

“Well, I was thinkin’ back to that offer you made to me last season,” Brandon said.

Pudge cocked his head. “Don’ remember, t’ink you’ll haveta refresh my memory.”

“You said you’d gone through hard times before, and that I could talk to you if I ever needed somebody,” Brandon said. “I think you need somebody to talk to, so.” Brandon gestured vaguely to himself. “Returnin’ the offer.”

Pudge’s face froze for a split second before spreading into the megawatt grin Brandon had gotten used to seeing from him the year before. Brandon didn’t think it had made an appearance since. 

“Didn’ t’ink you’d remember. _I_ didn’ even remember,” Pudge said.

Brandon held out his hand to Pudge. “Drinks’re on me.”

Pudge smiled, wrapping his warm, callused hand around Brandon’s, letting Brandon haul him to his feet. “Okay,” Pudge said, not slipping his hand away. “Like the sounda that.”

Brandon smiled back, wondered why he didn’t want to let Pudge’s hand go. “Me too.”

*

They ended up back at Brandon’s apartment after barhopping from one Lakeland dive to the other. Most of the bartenders didn’t recognize Brandon; anonymous white guys tended to blend into the scenery. But they _did_ recognize Pudge, and the two of them had managed to get free drinks every time. Hanging out with Pudge definitely had its perks.

During Spring Training, a lot of the guys rented out swanky rooms at four-star hotels and took it day-by-day because they could afford it, but not Brandon. He liked having a place to himself anyway; it was easier for Brandon and his wife, when she visited, to have private time without worrying that a teammate would barge in or something. 

The first thing Pudge did when they got back to Brandon’s place was to go looking for more tequila. Brandon was pretty sure Pudge had slugged enough of it to kill an army, but it wasn’t like Pudge was driving himself anywhere that night, so who was Brandon to stop him?

Brandon leaned back against the little kitchenette’s counter while Pudge poured tequila into shot glasses with shaking hands. “Uh, you need any help with—”

“No,” Pudge cut him off, “ ’m fine, I got it.” Tequila splashed over the Formica counter top.

“ ’Course you do.” Brandon shook his head and reached up to unbutton the collar of his shirt. “I’m gonna get changed into somethin’ more comfortable. You need anything? Like, clothes that don’t smell like cigarette smoke and beer?” Brandon flashed Pudge a smile.

Pudge picked up one of the shot glasses. “Need lotsa things.” Pudge downed the shot, Adam’s apple bobbing. He thumped the glass on the counter. “Is fine. An’ where’m I gonna crash?”

“I got a hide-a-bed you can use,” Brandon said, maneuvering himself around Pudge. He only wished he’d gotten a place with an actual kitchen, as opposed to a kitchenette, when he had guests. He didn’t actually cook anything when Shani didn’t stay with him. He had a pizza joint on speed dial to take care of _that_.

Pudge glanced up and offered him a weak, watery-eyed smile. “That sounds nice. Good.”

Brandon slipped away from Pudge and went to change and find him something to wear. As he dug around in his dresser drawer, the most random, absurd mental image of Pudge, naked, lying tangled in his bed sheets flickered into his mind.

Brandon shook the surprising mental image out of his head and grabbed an old t-shirt and a pair of boxers. “Lay off the booze,” he muttered to the mirror atop his dresser.

Brandon headed back out to the kitchenette, sleepwear in hand. Pudge was propped against the counter, nursing a bottled water. At least he’d moved on from the hard liquor.

“Hey, found you somethin’ to wear.” Brandon wagged the t-shirt and shorts at Pudge.

“Mm, th’nks.” Pudge put the water down and snagged the bedclothes from Brandon. “Where can I _cambiar_ my _ropa_?”

“Uh, bedroom’s fine, I guess,” Brandon said.

Pudge took the clothes and headed down the hall, shedding articles of clothing as he went. Pudge stopped in front of Brandon’s bedroom door, a trail of clothing leading back to the kitchenette, and went to unbuckle his pants.

“You need any help?” Brandon winced at how stupid that sounded, trailing behind and gathering up Pudge’s discarded club gear.

Pudge gestured to his belt buckle. “Won’t come off. T’ink it’s _estuck_.”

Brandon reached down and unclasped Pudge’s belt buckle with ease. “How much did you have to drink, anyways?” he asked, working the leather belt out of Pudge’s belt loops.

“Just enough,” Pudge said, sliding his hands over Brandon’s arms to steady himself.

“Lush,” Brandon said, with a smile. He paused, smile freezing on his face. “You need me to help you outta your pants too?”

Pudge swayed against him in reply, knees buckling. 

“Guess that’s a yes.” Brandon hooked an arm around Pudge’s waist and pushed the door open, tugging him toward the bed.

Their feet caught on the edge of Brandon’s rug and they both went tumbling to the ground, Pudge with his arms looped around Brandon’s shoulders, laughing hysterically.

Brandon landed with a thump on his back, arms still around Pudge. “What’s so funny?” he grumbled. “Think I broke my ass.”

Pudge looked down at him, face scrunched up and bright red, still giggling. “Wan’ me to kiss it all better?”

Brandon groaned and let go of Pudge. “That was bad.”

Pudge grinned. “So bad it’s good?”

Brandon pulled a face. Pudge also apparently missed the cue that he was supposed to get off of Brandon and give him some breathing room. “Pudge . . .”

“ _Sí_?”

“You’re lyin’ on toppa me.” Brandon squirmed. Now was definitely _not_ the time for his body to realize that another body—a very nice one, at that—was flush against him. Brandon squirmed some more, desperate to get Pudge away from him before anything _funny_ happened.

“You’re comfy, like big, comfy _almohada_.” Pudge pressed his forehead into Brandon’s neck and smacked his lips.

“ _Shit_ , you’re drunk,” Brandon said. He put a hand on Pudge’s back and rubbed. “Don’t go passin’ out on me now, okay?”

“ _Lo prometo_.” Pudge nuzzled against Brandon’s neck and—was that his _mouth_?

“What’re you doin’?” Brandon stilled his hand on Pudge’s back and scratched his fingertips lightly.

“Nothin’.” Pudge opened his mouth on Brandon’s neck and Brandon was pretty sure _that_ didn’t constitute nothing.

Brandon’s brain started screaming at him, telling him to shove Pudge off and reassert his masculinity somehow. Brandon ignored the voice in his head and curled Pudge closer instead.

Pudge’s mouth was wet and open on the side of Brandon’s neck, so warm and inviting. Something equally warm opened up low in his chest and surged through his veins, making him tighten his hands on Pudge’s back, making him not want to let him go. Even though he knew he really, _really_ should.

Pudge moved against him slowly and Brandon squeezed his eyes shut. “ _Fuck_.”

“Wanna stop?” Pudge asked, breath curling against Brandon’s neck.

“No,” he said, low and still.

Pudge grinned, and Brandon couldn’t help but smile back. Here they were, about to cross a line that should never be crossed, and Pudge was grinning like this was the best thing. “ _Está brutal_ ,” he said, dipping his head and kissing Brandon right on the mouth.

Brandon reached up and slid a hand over Pudge’s cheek, arching up to return the kiss. “This isn’t so bad,” Brandon said. He wrapped a hand around the back of Pudge’s neck, pulling him down for another kiss.

Pudge settled over Brandon’s chest, surprisingly light, and looked down at him. “I—will you, Brandon?”

“Will I what?” Brandon wasn’t always so good at the thinking thing. He nodded to Pudge to finish his sentence.

“Will you—” Pudge flushed prettily, slashes of red arching over his prominent cheekbones. “You know, _sexo_.” He made a vulgar hand motion, flushing an even deeper shade of red, and Brandon began to giggle.

“Oh,” he said, sliding a hand to Pudge’s hip, “why didn’t you just _say_ so?”

Pudge slapped him on the chest and sighed, pretending to be put-upon. “Now _you_ are the one who is bein’ _difícil_.”

Brandon smiled and led Pudge to the bed. He sank down deep into the mattress and crossed his arms behind his head, looking for all the world like he owned the place—like he _belonged_. Brandon flopped next to him and reach into the nightstand. His fingers hit a cardboard box of condoms he hadn’t been touched since the last time Shani had been up to visit and grabbed it. He flipped the condoms over to Pudge and grabbed the tube of K.Y. jelly as well.

Brandon had always felt pretty fortunate that Shani wasn’t one of those neurotic wives, the kind that was paranoid her husband was going to cheat with younger, hotter groupies. Brandon had seen enough of those kinds of women on the arms of his teammates. But with Shani’s job and charity work in Detroit and Brandon in Lakeland, they barely saw each other during the two and a half months of Spring Training. It was hard to be apart for so long, and hard to be faithful—so they weren’t.

Brandon and Shani had never kept any secrets from each other, though, and never would. Not to say he didn’t get a little jealous when Shani told him about the guys she fucked while he was down in Lakeland, but those were the breaks of their particular game. 

Brandon sprawled beside Pudge in the bed and wondered if Shani would be as cool about Pudge as she was about the other women. She was pretty relaxed and laid-back about most things, but he sometimes wondered if that was only because those things hadn’t come to her doorstep yet.

“Whaddaya thinkin’ about?” Pudge asked.

Brandon’s thoughts scattered like dead leaves and he reached down to stroke Pudge’s thigh. “Oh, nothin’ important,” Brandon said, raising his head and flashing a smile at him. “Just thinkin’ about how I’m gonna fuck you ’til you’re screamin’ my name and beggin’ for more.”

Pudge made an expression that looked somewhat like a cross between “impressed” and “incredulous”. Pudge grinned. “So you say. I t’ink you’re gonna haveta prove it.”

Brandon slipped an arm around Pudge, pushing thoughts of Shani to the backburner in his mind, and kissed him, stroking his tongue against Pudge’s. Pudge arched up against him, his bare, dry skin warm against Brandon’s, and inviting.

Brandon slid his hand over Pudge’s heart and moved it down, slowly, over his chest and abdomen, until he found what he was looking for. Pudge let out a high-pitched gasp against Brandon’s lips and rocked his hips forward into Brandon’s hand. Brandon tugged lightly at Pudge’s bottom lip with his teeth and twisted his wrist.

Pudge was pretty far gone by then, moaning into Brandon’s mouth and shamelessly thrusting his hips, greedy and desperate, one hand bunched in the back of Brandon’s shirt and the other digging into the mattress.

Brandon twisted his wrist again and Pudge yelped, tightening his hand on Brandon’s back. “ _¡Aye, Dios mio! Chingame._ ” 

“Speak English,” Brandon said, teasing him with the tips of his fingers.

Pudge grumbled and pressed his hips against Brandon’s hand, impatient. “Want you to fuck me.”

“Want you to fuck me—what, Pudge?” Brandon prompted, grinning widely when Pudge groaned and swatted him on the arm.

“ _Chingame. Por favór._ ” 

“Your wish is my command.” Brandon pulled away from Pudge and plucked a strip of condoms out of the box, tearing off a square and peeling the plastic wrapping off. Pudge reached over and gingerly removed the condom, grinning at Brandon before rolling it over his dick.

Brandon planted both hands at either side of Pudge’s face and hovered over him, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. Pudge tipped his head up and snorted, still smiling.

“You need a lotta preparation, or no?” Brandon asked, rubbing his hips slowly against Pudge’s thigh.

“Not a whole lot,” Pudge said, tracing curlicue patterns on Brandon’s shoulder with his fingernail. “Don’ care for the _juegos_ so much.”

Brandon flashed Pudge a wicked grin and ducked under the covers.

*

Once the season was officially under way, and the team got into the swing of things, it was easier for the two of them to get together on the road, where there were less potential distractions and potential disasters. The very last thing either of them needed was one of Pudge’s kids seeing something they shouldn’t.

(“I don’t want the load of scarrin’ your boy for life on my conscience,” Brandon had joked.

Pudge had just thrown his head back and laughed.)

Brandon and Pudge shared a room on the road, even though the team didn’t make their players room together anymore, not since Pudge came on board. The official story went something like: Pudge was a future Hall of Famer and a big enough star that he deserved his own hotel room, and they might as well let everybody else to keep things copacetic in the clubhouse.

Nobody said anything about Pudge and Brandon sharing a hotel room with only one bed, either.

Brandon had been on plenty of teams where he’d been the only one. Sometimes it was hard to deal with, and other times it wasn’t so bad. It was usually easier to deal with when the team was winning. In 2003, when they’d only won two out of their first twenty games and went on to lose a league-record 119, Brandon thought about it a _lot_. There were enough miserable nights in distant cities that season for Brandon to sit in dimly lit hotel rooms and think—and when you were Brandon Inge, thinking was something you were probably better off leaving alone.

He didn’t have to think about that with Pudge here, though. Beyond the obvious perks—great sex, great sex, and, well, great sex—there was the camaraderie, the knowledge that, for once, neither of them was the only not-quite-straight one on the team.

Brandon sat on the edge of the bed, jamming at a plastic video game console, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Super Mario Kart was serious business. The door opened and Brandon looked up, momentarily distracted; Pudge slipped into the room and shut the door gently behind him, plopping down beside Brandon on the bed.

“Hey,” Brandon said, putting the controller down and reaching over to rub Pudge’s thigh. “What’s up?”

“Long talk,” Pudge murmured, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into Brandon’s arm. “Just Ugie.”

“What about ’im?” Brandon looked down at Pudge and tapped out Morse code on his shoulder.

“Nothin’,” Pudge mumbled into the fabric of Brandon’s t-shirt. “Just Ugie bein’ Ugie. Y’know how he gets.” He slung an arm loosely over Brandon’s lap and sighed quietly.

Brandon smiled and fidgeted a little. “Anyways, enough about him.” He slithered flat onto his back and tilted his head toward Pudge, whose arm was still loose over his waist.

Pudge crawled around on the mattress until he and Brandon were side-by-side, and looked him right in the eyes. “ _Me gustas mucho._ ”

Brandon scrunched his brow. “You _know_ I don’t speak Spanish, Pudge,” he said, feigning exasperation.

Pudge laughed. “ ’s why I say it. An’ you won’ be holdin’ it ’gainst me.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

Pudge whacked him on the arm. “That was bad. Oughta make you suffer for it,” he needled.

“But you won’t,” Brandon provided, “because I’m just that awesome. Right?”

Pudge snorted, corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that Brandon loved. “ _Raitrú_.”

“We’re in agreement then.” Brandon gave Pudge a kiss right smack in the middle of his forehead.

“Looks like.” Pudge tunneled under the covers and Brandon sat up to watch, brow furrowed in confusion.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked.

There was no reply. Instead, a callused hand peeled open his boxers and slid around him, stroking. Pudge’s breath was moist and warm against his skin, and was that his _tongue_? He felt Pudge’s mouth curve into a smile against his belly.

Brandon, eyes squinched shut, tilted his head up to the ceiling and laughed. 

Yeah, he could get used to this.

*

Brandon shifted comfortably next to Pudge and used his shoulder as a pillow while the team’s charter prepared to depart tiny Oakland County Airport for Los Angeles. Pudge flipped through a glossy travel magazine and sipped at a martini, occasionally tapping his wedding ring against the rim of the glass. Brandon let the low rumble of the plane as it was preparing for takeoff and the background noise of his teammates fade out, until all he could hear was his own breathing, and Pudge beside him.

“Tired?” Pudge asked, tilting his head toward Brandon.

“Mm, li'l bit.” Brandon hunkered down against Pudge’s side and closed his eyes. “When’s this show gonna get on the road?”

“I dunno,” Pudge said, shifting under him. “Why don’cha just ask the sky?” He tapped a finger against the window.

Brandon pressed a hand against his mouth, stifling a yawn. “I’m gonna catch some shut-eye. Wake me up when we land.”

Pudge chuckled and closed his magazine, setting his drink in his plastic cup holder. “ _Que sueñes con angelitos_ , Brandon.”

Brandon felt Pudge’s fingers on his cheek briefly, so brief he couldn’t have been sure he didn’t just imagine the touch.

“ _¡Quítame tus jodías manos de encima!_ ” somebody shouted angrily, at the front of the plane. Brandon opened his eyes and sat up at the commotion. Ugie was standing in the middle of the aisle, swaying to one side, his shirt rucked out of his belt and his shiny, metallic gray tie crinkled.

Brandon swallowed, butterflies in his stomach turning vicious. He could practically smell the alcohol on Ugie’s breath five rows away. This was _not_ going to be good. He tightened a hand on Pudge’s arm.

“Why’ncha sit down? You’re holdin’ up the aisles,” big Kyle Farnsworth said, unfolding out of his seat to tower over Ugie.

Ugie wasn’t fazed. He thumped his hands in the center of Farnsworth’s broad chest and shoved him out of the way. “ _¡Vete pa’l carajo!_ ”

“Don’t put your fuckin’ hands on me,” Farnsworth rumbled, surging forward, fist cocked.

Ugie took a swing at Farnsworth but missed wildly and both of them went flying. Farnsworth got a padded armrest to the gut and Ugie ended up in the lap of Jamie Walker. Brandon jumped up and shot out of his seat to separate them before anything ugly could happen. Walker was a tiny, wiry guy. Ugie couldn’t take Farnsworth on because Farnsworth would probably snap him in half with little effort, but _Walker_ Ugie could probably take.

That was all the rest of the teammates needed. Guys spilled out of their seats, fists flying, and Brandon found himself pinned against something hard and firm, either a seat or a teammate. Most of them were trying to get to Ugie, trying to restrain him and prevent him from causing any more damage, while Farnsworth and Walker were tag-teaming him, trying to rub his face in the carpet.

Then smaller fights started to break off from the original scrum, guys getting into each other’s faces and stabbing fingers into chests, guys yelling and screaming in a frenetic braid of Spanish, English and profanity, guys pushing and shoving, grappling for the upper hand. It was a long, tough season already, and they were finally boiling over. Brandon spotted Pudge tugging Ugie out from under a pile-up and headed for him, but somebody grabbed him from behind.

Brandon whirled around, elbow flying, and knocked the hands away. When he turned back around and scanned for Pudge, he had disappeared, and Tram and Gibby had dived into the mess as well. Gibby had a gleeful insane look on his face as he yanked guys out of the pile-up by the scruffs of their necks and shoved them on their way. Tram, meanwhile, tried to play peacemaker and get the team settled down, but that wasn’t working out so well. They were all still a little hot under the collar, and more arguments were flaring up like wildfire too fast to be stamped out.

Brandon wound his way through the bodies, still looking for Pudge, when he spotted him near the front of the plane, arms around Ugie. Their heads were inclined toward one another and Pudge was saying something Brandon couldn’t make out over all the damn noise. Pudge pressed his hand over Ugie’s heart and patted. Brandon recognized that familiar intensity burning in his eyes as he spoke forcefully to Ugie, who was apparently sober enough, at that point, to listen.

Brandon started for them when Ugie tilted his head up and gave Pudge a sloppy kiss. Brandon stopped dead in his tracks, stunned. Stunned that Ugie had the balls to kiss Pudge on a team flight, drunk or not, and stunned that Pudge wasn’t pushing him away. In fact, Pudge curled his fingers in the front of Ugie’s rumpled shirt, holding him firmly in place, and then finally broke the kiss, dropping his forehead against Ugie’s hair.

Brandon turned abruptly on his heel, shoving through a wall of converging bodies for the back of the plane. He darted into the tiny, cramped bathroom and fiddled with the faucet knobs, splashing water into his flushed face.

A million thoughts hit his brain at once and he gripped his hands on the edge of the sink, knuckles cracking and turning white. Brandon searched his reflection for answers to questions he couldn’t even begin to formulate in his mind.

Nothing looked back at him.

Brandon sighed and shut the faucet off. He ripped off a couple sheets of paper towel and dried his hands, poking his head out to see if it was safe to return. Guys still hadn’t gone back to their seats, but at least no one was throwing punches anymore. Farnsworth and Walker were sitting triumphantly in their seats, looking smug and victorious, while Pudge and Ugie were sitting together a few rows behind them, talking in hushed tones, foreheads pressed together. 

Brandon slinked back to his seat, head down, and curled up by the window.

He closed his eyes, trying to get back to that place where he had been earlier, before Ugie stumbled onto the plane and all Hell broke loose, but it was no use. Everything was different and wrong.

Pudge was sitting with Ugie, Brandon was alone, the team’s façade had been ripped off to show the ugliness that lay just beneath the surface, and Brandon was pretty sure things had been irrevocably changed.

*

A couple days later at the hotel in Colorado, they got the news—Ugie had been traded to Philadelphia for Placido Polanco, an elfin second baseman with a high batting average and a lumpy skull. Brandon didn’t know much of Polanco, outside of the occasional mention on SportsCenter, so he headed down to the hotel lobby with the rest of the guys to meet him and introduce himself before the game.

Polanco strode into the lobby dragging a suitcase on rollers behind him. He wore a tailored suit and had a tan jacket slung over his arm, and sported a flashy pair of expensive looking sunglasses. The guy practically _reeked_ of class. When Polanco saw the guys waiting for him, he lifted his sunglasses, smiling broadly, and went around, shaking everybody’s hands.

Polanco was so bright and friendly—everything temperamental, brooding Ugie wasn’t—that guys were immediately taken by him, and practically glommed to his sides. Even Infante, who was now in danger of being sent down to Triple-A for Polanco, was hanging on his every word, as he talked about his flight, leaving behind a winning culture in Philadelphia, and building a new culture here in Detroit. He sounded like a salesman making his pitch and everybody was convinced within mere minutes of meeting him. It felt exhilarating to have somebody like that on the team.

After a listening to Polanco speak for a couple breathless minutes, Brandon glanced around. Pudge was nowhere to be seen. He crept quietly away and headed up to Pudge’s room to drag him downstairs. He’d been moping ever since he heard Ugie was on the market. Everyone flew into a tizzy the moment the trade was announced and it was learned who they would be getting back. Lord only knew how _Pudge_ was taking the trade.

Brandon knocked on Pudge’s door, but there was no reply. “Pudge, c’mon. It’s me, Brandon.”

“Sorry, just a minute.” Brandon could hear scrambling on the other end, as Pudge worked at the locks.

Brandon hadn’t spoken to Pudge outside of the dugout or the clubhouse since the fight with Ugie. It wasn’t Pudge’s fault, wasn’t like he was actively avoiding Brandon; actually, it was quite the contrary. Brandon just found reasons to be involved in other conversations or too busy to talk whenever Pudge was around. He was pretty sure he was behaving like a teenaged girl, giving Pudge the cold shoulder because he’d kissed somebody else, in clear view of Brandon—and everyone else for that matter—but he didn’t really care.

The shitty thing was, Brandon didn’t think Pudge had even noticed.

The door whooshed open and Pudge stood before him, bleary eyed, clad in nothing but a flimsy, _very_ dirty pair of boxers.

Brandon clucked his tongue and shook his head. “You ain’t even dressed yet! You gotta come down and meet the new guy, Polanco,” Brandon said, letting himself into Pudge’s room and quickly shutting the door behind him before anyone could happen by. “He’s great.”

Pudge pulled his face into a petulant, pouty scowl. “Don’ wanna meet Polanco,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Everybody’s introducing themselves, it’d look bad if you weren’t there.” Brandon headed over to Pudge’s dresser and began picking through one of the drawers for clean clothes that weren’t a part of his clubbing gear.

“Don’ _care_ if it makes me look bad,” Pudge said behind him, reaching around to shut the drawer.

Brandon turned and gave Pudge a look. “Is this about—Urbina?” he asked, haltingly.

Pudge dropped his gaze. “No,” he muttered, but he might as well have said, “Yes, of _course_ it’s about Urbina, you moron.”

“C’mon, Pudge,” Brandon pressed.

Pudge raised his head and leveled Brandon a hard glare. “Don’ wanna talk ’bout Ugie, okay? What’s done is done. It is over.”

Brandon glanced at Pudge, heart jackhammering in his chest, his palms slick with sweat. “What’s over?” He hesitated, voice cracking. “You—you and Ugie?”

Pudge’s eyebrows shot up in an almost comical expression of surprise. “Whaddaya mean, me an’ Ugie?” he asked.

“I _saw_ you guys, Pudge. On the plane, after the fight,” Brandon said, fear and nerves flushed out on a tide of righteous anger.

Pudge locked his jaw. “Whatever you saw, you didn’ see nothin’ on the plane wit’ me an’ Ugie, okay.”

“Pudge, he fuckin’ _kissed_ you right in front of everybody!” Brandon exploded.

“Nobody was even payin’ attention an’ don’ act like you got the whole story, ‘cause you don’ know the half of it,” Pudge fired back, stepping up to Brandon so that they were chest-to-chest. Even though Pudge had lost all that weight, he was still pretty damn scary when angered. 

Brandon wanted to back down, but his stupid niggling pride wouldn’t let him. “If that wasn’t fuckin’ Urbina _kissin’_ you, then what the fuck _was_ it?”

Pudge spewed and sputtered, and whirled away from Brandon in an overly dramatic pirouette. “I don’ haveta talk ’bout this wit’ nobody, least of all _you_.” Pudge opened the minibar violently and snagged a beer. He ripped it open and began to drink, eyes swimming with a dark, almost crazed energy.

“What’s _that_ s’posed to mean?” Brandon followed him, knocking the minibar shut to get Pudge’s attention back.

“Whatever you t’ink it mean,” Pudge snapped, trying to push Brandon out of his way. Brandon held his ground, refusing to give an inch, and Pudge finally gave up, slamming back his beer in two big gulps. Beer dribbled messily down his chin and Pudge swiped a hand over his face before licking it off his palm.

“Will you just cut the fuckin’ drama-queen diva act and tell me what the fuck is goin’ on?” Brandon shouted.

“My wife left me ’fore Spring Training,” Pudge fairly spit out, still so dangerously close to Brandon, eyes smoldering. “Happy now?”

Brandon sagged in surprise, all the tension seeping out of his tightly coiled muscles until he was lax against the minibar; he wasn’t expecting to hear _that_. Pudge and Maribel had been together for _years_ , engaged as teenagers in Puerto Rico and married between two games of a doubleheader the day he debuted for Texas. 

Brandon was pretty sure Maribel knew _all_ about his and Pudge’s thing, and he was also pretty sure Maribel knew she had something of Pudge that Brandon would never be able to touch. 

“She—Maribel _left_ you?”

“ _Sí_ , she left me. She is divorcing me,” Pudge said, a little calmer, crunching the empty beer can and tossing it away. “Kids ain’t comin’ up to Detroit for the summer like they were gonna. She won’ lemme see ’em. Takin’ me for all I’m worth.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry, Pudge,” Brandon exhaled slowly, rage and adrenaline funneling out.

“Only Tram’n Gibby know—’til you,” Pudge said, leaning back against the sliding glass balcony door. “Asked ’em not to tell nobody, didn’ wan’ it t’be a distraction.” He laughed bitterly and tilted his head back.

Brandon treaded carefully, trying to figure out how to put his next question as delicately as possible. “What does that all have to do with Ugie?”

Pudge looked at Brandon, cocked his head to the side. “Ugie’s _mi mejor ’migo_ , we been close since Florida in ’03. Tell ’im everyt’ing. Trust ’im more’n my own self sometimes.” Pudge glanced down at his hands. “Ugie showed up drunk on the plane that night ’cause we had a fight o’er stuff to do wit’ Maribel.”

“And then he just kisses you to make up for it. Yeah, that makes total sense,” Brandon quipped.

Pudge glared at him. “Not like that.”

Brandon sighed and swept his hands over his face. “Okay, fine. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”

Pudge made a snuffing noise and Brandon prayed silently that he wasn’t crying. He didn’t know if he’d be able to deal with that. “Brandon.” He wasn’t crying. At least _one_ thing had gone right that evening. “Me an’ Ugie, we were—we had a li'l somethin’ in Florida.” Pudge wavered. “Kinda like you’n me.”

Brandon dropped his hands and looked at Pudge. “You guys still got that somethin’ goin’ on?” Pudge shook his head minutely. Brandon sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, dropping his chin against his chest. “You wish you did?”

“No,” Pudge said. Brandon felt his fingers curl around his wrist. “Like what I got wit’ you.”

Brandon opened his eyes and raised his head. He managed a smile. “You really mean that, man? You ain’t just shittin’ me?”

Pudge laughed, and his trademark megawatt smile was back. “ ’Course I mean it.”

Something swelled in Brandon’s chest and he snagged Pudge’s hand in his own, pulling him close. “Good then. ’Cause I like what we got too, man.” He pressed a chaste kiss to the top of Pudge’s head. “You’re really—you’re really great.”

Pudge chuckled against his shoulder. “ _Gracías. Y tu, mi pana._ ”

Brandon nestled Pudge in his arms. “So . . . Why you been missin’ in action lately?”

“Everyt’ing is so hard right now,” Pudge said into Brandon’s shoulder. “Wit’ Maribel an’ the kids, an’ Ugie. Didn’ wanna burden anya this on you.”

Brandon snorted and gave Pudge a squeeze. “Maybe if you’d burdened some of it on me, it wouldn’t’ve got so hard to deal with, duh.”

Pudge responded with a hug. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I _know_ I am.” Brandon gave Pudge another chaste kiss, and Pudge’s mouth curved against his shoulder in response. Brandon smiled against his forehead and stepped back, slipping his hands over his shoulders. “So, you wanna go downstairs and meet Polanco?”

Pudge looked up at Brandon and shook his head. “Nah, got lotsa time for that yet.” He pushed Brandon back toward his bed, leaning in on the tips of his toes to kiss him. “T’ink I like this better, besides.”

Brandon fell back onto the mattress, taking Pudge with him. “Me too,” he laughed.

Pudge crawled on top and wriggled against Brandon, grinning down at him dazzlingly. He slid a hand under Brandon’s t-shirt, pushing it up his chest until Brandon reached up to help Pudge tug it off. Pudge smiled again.

“What’s so funny?” Brandon asked, drawing his hands down Pudge’s back and then up again. “You sure are all _smiley_ today.”

Pudge shook his head and ducked down for another kiss. Brandon could feel the corners of Pudge’s mouth curving up against his own. “Nothin’.”

Brandon wrapped his arms around Pudge and gave him a light kiss. “S’long as you’re sure about that.”

*

The team traded Farnsworth right at the deadline, before a game in Oakland, and that was when Brandon realized, with stunning clarity, that their season was over.

Sure, they still had two months of games left on the schedule, and everyone had been saying the right things, but they couldn’t fool themselves anymore. They all knew what trading a veteran closer for minor league prospects meant in the language of baseball. 

When Tram stepped to the front of the clubhouse, looking wearier and more beaten down and older than his years, and announced the deal right before they were to head out for batting practice, Brandon could practically hear the doors slam shut on their season.

“Had to make the deal, guys, you understand,” Tram had said, almost apologetically, flattening his hand over the black old English D sewn into the front of his jersey. Considering it was Tram, though, he probably really did feel bad about it.

“Started out with three closers and now we ain’t got none,” Dmitri complained, throwing up his hands in disgust. Guys rumbled their agreement while Tram just stood at the front of the classroom, looking for all the world a miserable teacher who hated his job.

“We didn’t have a choice, fellas,” their skipper pressed on, ever the trooper, but nobody was even listening to him anymore.

Guys bitched about the trade, and Farnsworth stood awkwardly by his locker, head directed to the carpet, isolated and center of attention all at once. Guys weren’t sure if they should go over and say their goodbyes or avoid him altogether, since he wasn’t one of _them_ anymore. Baseball pack mentality was a tough thing to navigate, and Brandon had to admit he felt relieved that it was Farnsworth who was being shunned and not himself.

They all knew Dombrowski had offered him a big deal to stay in Detroit, lock down the bullpen as their closer for years to come. They also knew that Farnsworth had basically laughed in his face and turned the contract offer down so emphatically, that he was traded a mere handful of days later.

The whole thing had been unraveling for weeks, maybe even months and now it had finally reached the breaking point. The fights hadn’t gone completely away after Ugie was traded—the faces were different, but the song and dance remained the same. The trade had brought some things to the surface and exorcized some demons, but the old cracks and fissures were still there, just hidden better. Brandon wondered if there wasn’t some part of this team that was fundamentally flawed, broken.

Farnsworth was gone and the team was fraying at the seams. Polanco walked around with a permanent look of “What the hell kind of mess did just I walk into?” on his face. The team split into warring factions over the catching situation, one half taking Pudge’s side and the other siding with Vance, his more than capable backup. It was all falling apart and Brandon didn’t know if he could hold it together by himself, didn’t know if it was even worth it.

And Pudge brought a Colombian woman with him on the road that trip out to Oakland and Brandon was staying by himself for the first time in—Jesus, he couldn’t even remember when, and he was pretty sure that was when the threads that were holding everything—the season, his sanity, the _thing_ with Pudge—delicately in balance had completely snapped.

She was beautiful, of course. That part didn’t surprise Brandon one bit. The part where she was a woman, though. Yeah, _that_ part surprised him. 

The first time he saw her, leaning against Pudge’s cherry-red Lamborghini with a posh Gucci handbag and a tiny white ball of fluff sporting a diamond-studded collar, clad in a body-hugging black catsuit and _lots_ of diamonds, he thought, “Pudge definitely has a _type_.” She looked like she could very well have been Maribel’s sister, and that made him uneasy; both women were short with good figures, dark hair, flashy clothes and jewelry, and considerable—assets. Brandon was the only one who didn’t fit in this dysfunctional Rodriguez family portrait.

She introduced herself to everyone as Patrícìa (“ _Pa-tree-see-a._ ”) and flitted about the Oakland County Airport landing strip, greeting each one of Pudge’s teammates with a hug. Guys were practically fighting over which one of them got to hug Pudge’s Colombian girlfriend first. Farnsworth finally won the battle by crowding out Infante, persistent bugger that he was, with his elbows and taking her hand with a chivalrous bow.

When she finally made her way to Brandon, she put her arms around him and gave him a big, unexpectedly friendly hug. Brandon normally wouldn’t have objected because, hey, hot chick, but it was pretty weird hugging the girlfriend of your—whatever Pudge was to him. Patrícìa’s skin was soft and warm, and she smelled like mangoes. The diamonds in the jangly bracelets lining her wrists and forearms were cool against the back of his neck.

“He tells me so much about you,” she said, giving him a squeeze. “He says you are a good friend for him, that you help him.”

Brandon patted her lightly on the back for lack of anything else to do with his hands. Her breasts were so huge and round, he couldn’t get his arms completely around her. He wondered how she and Pudge managed the hugging thing, wondered if they managed it as well as _he_ and Pudge did.

“Honestly, he’s never mentioned you before. So, uh, nice to finally meet you, Patrícìa.” Brandon slid his hands away from her and offered her a sheepish, lopsided smile.

Patrícìa daintily tucked a tendril of glossy black hair behind one diamond-studded earlobe and offered Brandon a shy smile. “He likes to keep me a secret,” she said, giving him a conspiratorial wink.

Pudge strode onto the landing strip, where the guys were waiting for their charter flight to Oakland, and his open, friendly expression tightened visibly when he caught a glimpse of Patrícìa. Brandon followed Pudge with his eyes as he stepped up to her and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her in close. 

“ _Patrícìa, cariño, ¿qué estás haciendo aquí? No esperaba verte antes de llegar a Oakland._ ” Pudge leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek and ruffled the ball of fluff between its ears.

“ _Tenía que traer a Mango para que se despidiera de ti_ ,” she said, placing the dog’s tiny paw over Pudge’s slender, tan hand. “ _Sabes que se pone como loco cuando te vas._ ”

Brandon quirked his eyebrows at that. _Mango?_

Pudge smiled again, but the strain behind it was unmistakable. “You have met Brandon?” Pudge asked Patrícìa, finally looking at him.

“Yes! I can’t believe you never introduce us before,” she scolded, cuddling Mango against her generous chest. “He is such a good friend of yours and you keep him a secret from me.” She gave Pudge a playful whack on the chest.

“I didn’ mean to,” Pudge said, glancing down at her, rubbing his hand in circles on her back. “It just never comes up.” He looked back at Brandon, lips thinning.

“Well. It was nice to finally meet y’all,” Brandon said, nodding to Patrícìa and Mango. Mango flicked out a ribbon-like pink tongue at him and Brandon obliged him with a pat on the head.

Pudge slipped a hand to the small of Patrícìa’s back and glanced back at Brandon before leading her over to the Lamborghini, leaning in to mutter something in her ear. Brandon couldn’t help but watch the exchange, burning a little.

So, it _hadn’t_ been Maribel who had something of Pudge that he’d never be able to touch? It was this _Pat-tree-see-a_ with her sleek hair and her sleek physique, and her stupid little white ball of fluff named Mango? Brandon would have rather played second fiddle to Maribel than _this_ woman.

Pudge finally made his way back to Brandon and smiled at him, but the strain was still lining the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Sorry, she wasn’ supposedta come out here, she was supposedta meet me at the hotel,” he explained, which wasn’t really even an explanation because, before _Pa-tree-see-a_ introduced herself, Brandon had thought—well, Brandon wasn’t really sure _what_ he thought. Pudge glanced around quickly before lowering his voice. “Is kinda secret. The relationship, I mean.”

“Kinda like you an’ me,” Brandon suggested, not unkindly, just bluntly.

Pudge sighed and shoved his hands deeply into the pockets of his trousers. “ _Sí_ , kinda. Patrícìa—she is the reason for Maribel leaving,” he said, raising his voice as the team’s charter finally made its long-awaited appearance on the tarmac. “Maribel me _cachó_ with Patrícìa last winter.”

Brandon’s head was swimming with sensory overload over all this new information. How had Pudge managed to find time to screw with Maribel, Ugie, Patrícìa _and_ Brandon, and not only that, but juggle them so well that none of them knew about one another? 

“You must be a busy little bee,” Brandon said, maybe a little unkindly this time.

Pudge had the good sense to flinch at that. “I—I make mistakes. Lotsa mistakes, ain’t denyin’ that.”

Brandon rubbed his hands over his face. “I would’ve appreciated knowing about _Pa-tree-see-a_ beforehand. I mean, ain’t like we’re pickin’ out rings and shit, but still. It was the least you could’ve done. Maybe I could’ve—” Brandon cut himself short and dropped his hands. “Could’ve—fuck, I don’t know.”

Pudge nodded grimly, biting on his bottom lip. “You are right,” he murmured, in that maddeningly soft tone that drove Brandon bonkers. “I shoulda said somet’ing about Patrícìa. But I couldn’, ’specially not when Ugie was with us on the team.”

“Look, I’m not gonna fight you on this, okay,” Brandon said. “You couldn’t, so you didn’t, end of.”

Pudge nodded once, flicking his eyes up at Brandon. “ _Raitrú_.”

“All right then.” Brandon grabbed his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the waiting airplane.

*

Brandon headed down for the hotel pool, a towel draped over one shoulder. He was looking forward to a nice, long, peaceful swim with no one to bother him. Pretty much everybody else would be out on the town, barhopping and clubbing. Oakland wasn’t really all that interesting, but it was right across the bay from its more glamorous sister, San Francisco.

As was expected, the pool area was completely empty. Brandon set down his towel and dipped a toe into the shallow end. The water was a little on the chilly side, just how Brandon liked it, so he headed to the deep end, feet slapping wetly against the tiles, to where the diving board was waiting.

Brandon climbed onto the diving board and looked down. His reflection stared back up at him, shimmering and abstracted, like pieces of broken glass stuck back together in a bad fit.

He closed his eyes and jumped.

*

A week later in Toronto, Pudge got socked with a four game suspension for inappropriate behavior and using “crass” language, Bob Watson had said, during a particularly colorful ejection in Oakland.

Pudge appealed the suspension for a few days before just giving up and dropping it. He would begin serving it while the team was in Toronto, and be back by the time they headed into Kansas City for a doubleheader.

Or so they thought.

“Hey! Did’ja hear?”

Brandon looked up from his very important task of sorting out dirty navy knee socks from the clean. “Hear what, man?”

Dmitri plopped down on Brandon’s little wooden stool and Brandon bit lightly on his lip, imagining the thing going to kindling under the big first baseman’s ass. 

“It’s about Pudge,” Dmitri said, positively glowing. 

Brandon’s stomach sunk like a stone. He didn’t trust the look in Dmitri’s eyes. “What d’you mean?” He sat back on his haunches and regarded Dmitri warily.

“He went off to _Colombia_ ,” Dmitri cackled. “He missed his flight to K.C. and Dombrowski is _pissed_ , man, and not even ’cause Pudge went to Colombia, but that it got out to the media. Apparently this was some big secret trip nobody was s’posed to know about.”

Brandon thought back to Patrícìa and all the diamonds on her fingers. “Colombia? What could he possibly be doing _there_?”

Dmitri shrugged. “Who knows, peddlin’ coke?”

Brandon rested his arms across his knees, feeling suddenly nauseous, throat locking up on him. “Well, Pudge’s a grown man. He’s allowed to do what he wants, I guess.”

“Sure, but you and I both know there ain’t the same set of rules for everybody else like there are for Pudge,” Dmitri said, nudging Brandon in the shoulder and winking. “Know what I mean?”

“Well, yeah, but still.” Brandon didn’t have anything to counter that.

“ ‘But still’ nothin’, Brandon. Pudge’s playin’ the game at a whole ’nother level, and I _don’t_ mean the game between the chalk lines.” Dmitri got up and trundled off, snapping at the Velcro straps of his batting gloves.

As much as he wanted to deny it, some of what Dmitri said rang true. Pudge had always operated on a whole different playing field than the rest of them. He wondered why Pudge’s personal life should have been any different than his game. 

It probably wasn’t.

Brandon gathered up the pile of socks and slammed them into the back of his locker, a blinding shot of rage upside the head. He kind of wished Pudge was here just so he could kick him in the ass.

Of course he wasn’t, and he’d probably flit into the clubhouse later on like nothing was the matter, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Maybe he’d even bring fucking _Pa-tree-see-a_ and _Mango_ with him. Brandon shuddered and brought his fists down on his locker shelf with a satisfying thump. A framed photo of Shani and their boy, Tyler, rattled with the force.

He glanced up at the picture, at Shani’s pretty, smiling face, at baby Tyler in her arms, and felt like throwing up.

Brandon lashed an arm out and swept the frame off his locker shelf. It smashed into a plaster ceiling column and exploded in glass shrapnel and chalky white dust, metal frame twisting. Shani’s happy face tore straight down the middle, bisected in jagged halves. Brandon looked down at the mess, the broken glass and the bent metal picture frame, chest heaving, the breath burning in his lungs.

He crouched down and gently extracted the two pieces of the photograph and shook out the glass, a cool wash of guilt flooding over him at the sight.

Shani loved him unconditionally, and they’d definitely had their shares of ups and downs, but she’d never run off on him when he needed her the most. Even when she wasn’t there, she was always present in some little way. Shani was always, at the very least, emotionally available. 

More than he could say for some.

Brandon tucked the pieces of the photograph in the back pocket of his uniform pants and went to look for the janitor.

*

Pudge returned to the team with a tan and a slim gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand, and that immediately put to rest any speculation over his whereabouts.

Pudge kept mum whenever anyone hassled him about Patrícìa and the “mystery wedding,” but nothing really needed to be said. They all knew the truth. They didn’t need to hear Pudge confirm it.

Guys kept their distance from Pudge and his locker, and Brandon was pretty sure he was the only one paying attention as Pudge stripped down to his sliders in front of his stall. A wooden-beaded rosary hung around his neck; Brandon didn’t remember ever having seen it before he left to serve his suspension.

He headed over and reached out, hooking his finger in the beaded rosary. “What’s this,” he asked, tugging gently. “This new?”

Pudge looked up, startled. “ _¿Qué_? Oh, yes, is new.’

“Didn’t peg you for an overly religious type.” Brandon paused. “Even with all the thankin’ Jesus for your homeruns.”

Pudge narrowed his eyes, growing guarded and tense. “What’s this about?”

“Just you fuckin’ off to Colombia,” Brandon said, with a nonchalant shrug, folding his arms across his chest. He nodded at the gold wedding band and gave Pudge a pointed look.

Pudge slid a hand over it, twisting it with his fingers, unable to—or refusing to?—meet Brandon’s eyes. “Oh, this? This is nothin’, just an’ old ring.”

“ _Raitrú_ ,” Brandon sneered. “At least be fuckin’ honest with me, _Iván_.”

Pudge’s eyes shot wide open in surprise, like he’d never been expecting for his proper Christian name to come out of Brandon’s mouth. “I—I _am_ bein’ honest, Brandon,” he stammered, still refusing to look him in the eyes. Pudge focused his gaze solely on the damn ring as he spun it around on his finger.

Brandon watched Pudge silently, working his jaw, before finally responding. “You know, I almost think you believe that.” He pushed past him and headed for the exit before pausing, tossing a glance back over his shoulder. Pudge was watching him, teeth digging into his bottom lip, hand clasped loosely around his tiny crucifix pendant.

Brandon turned his back and kept walking.

  
**2008**  


Brandon watches from his corner of the clubhouse as Pudge pulls out a black duffel bag and unzips it, reaching into his locker for his misshapen padded chest protector and his scuffed shin guards. Brandon glances at his own gear, which is hanging up in his stall, fresh from the cellophane packaging, and the irony doesn’t escape him. Pudge’s gear has been through a lot in the last five seasons, and it finally looks like it belongs, funnily enough.

Pudge tosses some stray baseball into his bag, along with several pairs of navy socks, a few pairs of cleats and crosstrainers with white embroidered 7s on the heels—he’ll have to give up 7 now that he’s a Yankee, but Brandon doesn’t think Pudge will mind—and a gilt-framed photograph of Patrícìa and the kids. Brandon even thinks he spots a photo of Maribel go into the black nylon bag as well.

Brandon haunts the shadows of the clubhouse, wedged between his locker at the end of the row and the jutting wall, tucked away, safely unseen. Pudge starts humming, some song Brandon recognizes but can’t place, as he continues to toss items into his duffel bag. An almost empty rolled up tube of toothpaste flies in, followed by a bottle of Herbal Essences shampoo—Brandon has to choke back a laugh to remain undetected—and a blue baseball cap with a Magglio wig attached. Brandon hides a smile behind his hand, wonders what the hell Pudge is going to do with a Magglio wig in New York.

A simple Polaroid flutters from Pudge’s hand into the open duffel and Brandon leans forward, squints, trying to make it out. He moves a little closer, and he can see that it’s one of him and Pudge in the back of a limo after they clinched the Wild Card in ’06, drunk out of their minds, deliriously happy. There isn’t any particular memory attached to the photo, from what Brandon can remember, just the whole clinching the Wild Card thing. 

Nothing had even happened between the two of them then, either; it just wasn’t something they did anymore. It wasn’t anything they’d talked about, wasn’t like they sat down together and decided to end their _whatever_ over coffee. Brandon still doesn’t have a word for what it was.

Most relationships don’t end on big, dramatic proclamations anyway, Brandon has found. Most of the time, they just end because whatever’s been keeping the two people together has dried up and it’s time to move on.

Brandon hazards a look up at Pudge. Pudge is staring at him, eyes soft, mouth working but no sound coming out. Finally, he clears his throat and speaks.

“ ’ey, Brandon,” he says, stepping around his duffel. “Didn’ hear you come in.”

“Didn’t say goodbye to me on the field, asshole,” Brandon says, displaying a smile so Pudge will know he’s joking. He holds out a hand to Pudge, swallowing convulsively. “Just wanted to say goodbye, man.”

Pudge looks at Brandon’s proffered hand and gently wraps his fingers around it. “Not a time for goodbyes,” Pudge says, tugging Brandon closer. “Ain’t really goin’ nowhere. Just goin’ to a diff’rent team.”

Brandon lets him hold onto his hand. “That kinda constitutes _goin’ somewhere_ , Pudge,” he says, trying to make a joke out of it. “That—that’s kinda the point.” His voice cracks on the final word and Pudge’s fingers tighten around his hand.

“I know,” he says. Pudge flicks his nervous pinball gaze back on Brandon. “I—I don’ know what t’say.”

“Me neither, man,” Brandon says, taking in a huge breath. “It’s been a crazy four and a half years, you know?”

“That long?” Pudge asks, rubbing his thumb over the back of Brandon’s wrist in gentle circles. “ ’sa long time.”

“Yeah, these days, it is.”

Pudge and Brandon look at each other quietly for a few minutes, Pudge’s fingers still locked around Brandon’s wrist. Brandon doesn’t want to be the one who leaves first, and he doesn’t think Pudge does either. Brandon glances at the nylon duffel sitting in front of Pudge’s locker, at all the time that’s passed, marked in things like a tube of toothpaste, old photos, gloves, socks, cleats. Brandon sighs. 

Pudge closes his eyes and inhales deeply, rolling his shoulders before speaking. “I’m sorry about everyt’ing. Sorry about Ugie an’ Patrícìa.” He pauses, voice growing soft and subdued. “Sorry I never did nothin’ right.”

Brandon shakes his head. “You did plenty right, Pudge.”

“Wasn’ enough,” he says, chuffing mildly in disagreement. “Wasn’ near enough.”

“Why wasn’t it? We made it to the fuckin’ World Series, man. Some guys _never_ get that opportunity,” Brandon challenges, knowing full well that’s not what Pudge is really getting at. He isn’t sure he wants Pudge to say what he _really_ means, though. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to deal with that. Better not to chance it.

Pudge nods slowly, understanding. “ ’s enough for you?” he asks.

“It is,” Brandon says.

Pudge’s mouth twitches into a fleeting smile, eyes warm. “Then ’s good enough for me.” He lets go of Brandon’s hand and strokes his callused knuckles over the curve of his cheek.

Brandon studies the hard, beautiful lines of Pudge’s jaw, sliding a hand over Pudge’s on his cheek. He can see tiny, flickering reflections of himself in Pudge’s pupils. “I’ll miss you.”

“ _Te voy a extrañar también_ ,” Pudge murmurs, leaving his hand in place over Brandon’s cheek. “ _Nunca te he merecido._ ”

He shakes his head, managing a slight smile. “Wasn’t a case of you deserving me or not,” he says, “we were just in the right place at the wrong time. No shame in that, man.” 

“Thought you didn’ speak no Spanish,” Pudge says, voice bunched up in his chest.

“I don’t,” he says, pausing, “but I understand it just fine.” Brandon smiles.

Pudge cocks a half-smile in return. “So, all those times I say silly things, silly little _palabritas tiernas_ in Spanish, you know what I mean?” he asks.

Brandon nods.

Pudge’s half-smile unfolds into full-fledged grin. “Then I _do_ do some’ting right.” He leans in on the tips of his toes and feathers a kiss over Brandon’s lips.

Brandon rests a hand lightly on Pudge’s shoulder and returns the kiss, his touch delicate and light, as if this moment between them is as fragile as glass and neither wants to be the one to break it. Pudge strokes his fingers over Brandon’s cheek and breathes something against his mouth.

“Hm?” Brandon asks, pulling back to look at Pudge questioningly.

“ _Tú eres mi mejor ’migo._ ”

Brandon tightens his hand on Pudge’s shoulder. “You too.”

Pudge finally pulls his hand away from Brandon’s cheek and steps back, moving stiffly, like his brain is forcing his muscles to fall into line. He bends over and zips up his duffel bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. Pudge sighs and pulls his wooden-beaded rosary off a hook in his locker, fitting it around his neck, tiny cross thumping against his chest.

He turns and looks at Brandon. “This it?”

“This is it.” Brandon manages a smile.

Pudge draws in a deep breath before shuffling reluctantly toward the door. He stops in the doorway, glancing back at Brandon again. Pudge scratches his fingernails on the glossy metal doorframe and slants his gaze away, bashfully. “Brandon?”

Brandon watches as he ticks his manicured fingernails over the smooth metal door. “Yeah, Pudge?”

“See you in a month.” Pudge winks at him and walks out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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